


take my soul (but not my heart)

by onthelasttrain



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/M, Ghost!JD, Horror, Post canon, Toxic Relationship, and a Ouija Board, mentions of self half and suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onthelasttrain/pseuds/onthelasttrain
Summary: Veronica Sawyer doesn't believe in ghosts, despite her past. As far as she is concerned, the dead stay dead and the ghosts she sees are all her imagination; haunting her subconscious by day and turning her dreams to nightmares. But real ghosts don't exist.Until two letters are spelled out on a Ouija board on Halloween night. Then she finds her past is haunting her in more ways than one.
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 25
Kudos: 81





	take my soul (but not my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> so this was meant to be ready for halloween. and then it wasn't. happy belated halloween?  
also like i said in the tags, since this is a post-canon heathers fic it does reference suicide and also implies self harm. and uses a ouija board. if any of that is likely to triggeror upset you, proceed with caution.

“Sounds like fun.” That’s what Veronica had said when one of the girls in her dorm building asks if she wants to come to a séance on Halloween night. It’s nothing spectacular, she says, just a group of girls she knows from the dorms and her classes huddling around over someone’s Ouija board trying to talk to the dear departed. She knows it won’t work, and that’s why she’s going. She’s come to accept that the figures that skulk in the shadows of her dorm room are all inside her mind, Heather Chandler coughing up drain cleaner and Kurt and Ram making crude jokes at the foot of her bed. It’s all her, and she’ll live with them for forever, but it’s not real. Images conjured up by her tormented brain. The dead stay dead, that’s how it should be and it’s how it is. If they did come back, she’s fairly certain she would have joined them by now, one way or the other.

So what’s the harm in some silly attempt to contact a dimension that doesn’t exist?

She pulls at her skirt, the cold October air whipping around her legs and making her shiver even in her tights, white and decorated with black spider webs. She’s nothing if not festive, adjusting her cat ears and checking her reflection in the window of the unfamiliar house to make sure her eyeliner whiskers haven’t smudged. She was told it’s some girl she’s never met’s place, a friend of a friend. That’s how Veronica was even inviting to this little gathering in the first place; the invitation passed along the grape vine. Still, her parents are happy she’s branching out and it’s better than sitting in her dorm and being alone with her thoughts. It’s a nice house, nice enough to let her know her family has money, complete with a shiny lion shaped door knocker and a pristine front porch with a swing.

“Veronica!” The door opens and she’s greeted by Madeline, a small red headed girl in one of her classes. Social work is a big enough degree but they’ve run into each other more times for it to be a casual acquaintance. Soon they started pairing up as study buddies and meeting for coffee before the dreaded 9am classes. Madeline’s not so different from her Ohio friends, she’s sweet like Martha (except slightly less than) and her wide eyes and love for parties are reminiscent of Heather MacNamara. Thankfully, that’s where the similarities end between her and the Westerberg High student body. “Come on in!”

“Thanks,” she says, letting Madeline lead her down the hall. The smell of alcohol is unmistakable and her stomach twists behind her smile.

“Want a drink?” Maddy asks, gesturing to the cluster of glass bottles on the table with labels she half-recognises.

“I’m okay,” she says, trying not to wrinkle her nose. “Me and alcohol aren’t exactly friends.” Madeline nods and hands her a can of Coke instead, leading her into the main room where the sounds of giggling and enthusiastic yelling can be heard.

“Guys,” she says. “This is Veronica.” About six expectant heads turn to look at her, all with the same variety of wide, excited eyes and open smiles. Two she even recognises; Bianca and Tracey from her course give her friendly waves and even make room for her on the couch they were on. It was already overcrowded when she got there, but she’s grateful for it all the same. “Oh, Ronnie, this is Christy. She’s the one organising this.” Madeline gestures to a tall dark skinned girl in a short red dress.

“So you’re Veronica,” she says, leaning forwards with her elbows resting on her knees. There’s intrigue sparking in her eyes, but nothing else, no malice or cruel intent, but that doesn’t stop Veronica from building her guard up. “You’re the one who doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Did you tell everyone about that?” she asks Madeline. The other girl shrugs guiltily, taking a sip of her beer that lasts longer than it should.

“Not everyone,” she says sheepishly. “Just slipped out when I was talking to Christy about this.”

“I mean I’m not judging,” Christy says. “I just have to ask; why. Why don’t you believe in ghosts?”

“Because…” She pauses, trying to form the best possible answer. Her thought process is intertwined with her past, bloody and dark and altogether not an ideal party topic. “Because if ghosts do exist, why are they only the bad ones? Where do all the good ghosts with unfinished business go?”

“She’s got a point,” Bianca acknowledges, raising her plastic cup at Christy.

“Maybe,” she admits. “But we’ll find out later. Midnight.” Her dark eyes glitter as she wiggles her perfectly plucked and maintained eyebrows. “The witching hour.” The rest of the girls gasp and “ooh” at Christy’s declaration and Veronica has to admit, even for a so-called cynic, there’s something in Christy’s wicked grin that makes a shiver run down her spine.

From then until midnight, the pass the time as any college freshmen would, drinking and gossiping. Tracey spends almost an hour telling them about her newest hook-up, a boy she met at the gym and who she had been sneaking glances at over the treadmills until he summoned up the courage to ask her out. Veronica listens and nods and smiles accordingly, put at ease by the girl’s animated face and sunny laugh.

“So, Veronica,” Christy asks. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“No boys in your life?” she asks. Veronica shakes her head, her demeanour casual despite the way her heart freezes in her chest. It’s a still she’s become a master at, with all the months of practice she had. It’s Halloween, after all. She’s putting on a mask.

“No,” she says. “I don’t really date.”

“You don’t have a boy back home?” Bianca asks. She sits squatted down beside the couch, her hair falling over her shoulders.

“Nope,” she says again. She starts picking at her nails, thankful for the low light.

“Come on,” Christy pushes. “Not even an ex-boyfriend?” She shakes her head again, praying for the conversation to change topic. Something changes in Christy; she looks down and her smile drops for a second, an awkward innocent showing underneath her party girl front. “I don’t believe you. You’re too pretty not to have one.”

She chuckles into her drink, choosing to keep silent. JD thought she was pretty too, although he preferred to use the word ‘beautiful’. Her hands start to tremble and she balls her fist into her skirt, hoping no one can see it. It’s been months. A year in November since JD and yet he still clings to her, woven underneath her skin and sticking to her soul. Heather, Kurt and Ram follow her around too, but not the way he does. She doesn’t see his face in the mirror or his figure standing at the foot of her bed, doesn’t hear his voice over that of her lecturer. She feels him inside her, his dark eyes on the back of her neck, his presence moving every action she takes. Sitting in her brain and replaying his worst moments on a continuous loop. She still can’t fathom if it’s guilt or love that’s making her do this to herself. The worst is at night, in those moments just before she falls asleep. Sometimes she swears she can feel his arms around her waist and she can almost believe it’s him, in the version of reality where he’s not too far gone and they make it work.

Dare to dream, Veronica.

The sky turns darker as midnight rolls around. Tracey’s had just enough drinks to make her tipsy at this point, cuddling up to and smiling dopily at Veronica and leaning on anyone else she can, giggling hysterically at nothing. The sound echoes off the dark wood walls until it feels plastic and hollow.

When the sky is pitch-black outside and the hands of the clock are one degree away from twelve, Christy gets up, announcing that it’s time to start. She skips over to the bookshelf and pulls out a heavy looking wooden box, grinning excitedly. Almost no one breathes as she kneels down on the floor, placing the box before her. One by one, they all follow suit, including Veronica. While she still stands firm in her belief about ghosts, there is something in the air that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The room is only lit by candles, casting shadows on the dim walls.

“Okay,” Christy sighs, taking the board out and placing it in the middle of them. “Come on closer. We all need to be together for this to work.”

It’s no bigger than her mother’s chopping board. It looks exactly as she expected it to; light brown, streaked wood with black letters and numbers printed on, two stars in the corner. It looks practically harmless; a dull, lifeless toy that Christy probably wasted her money on. She doesn’t say anything, though.

Christy places the little pad on the middle, one finger on it, leaving the glass eye open.

“Come on.” She looks up and her eyes lock with Veronica. “Are you in?”

“Absolutely.” She places her finger on the wood. It feels just like she expected it to; cool and hard and empty. There’s no spirits in there. The others join her, everyone with at least a fingertip on the wood.

“Okay.” Christy’s voice starts to tremble just a little and she gives an excited half-smile. “Here we go.” She clears her throat and shakes her head so that her long hair falls over her shoulders. “Spirits, if you are here, speak to us. Can you hear us?”

And then it moves. It does give her a shock, the seemingly dead wood moving beneath her still finger, but she’s not convinced. Any of the others could be moving it, not even deliberately. The subconscious is a scary thing, she’d know more than most. It moves to yes.

Christy looks up at her again and Veronica only shrugs.

“Spirit, can you tell us your name?”

It moves again, slow and steady across the board until it lands on a letter. J. They stay there for around ten seconds, the only sound the whistling wind and drunk frat boys outside. Then it moves again, pulling Veronica along with it. She tries not to shake, but goosebumps are making their way across her arms thanks to the draughty house, the cold prickling at her skin. Her arm is cramping as well from holding it like this for so long and her knees and heels are starting to ache from kneeling on the wooden floor.

Jesus, has she always been this miserable?

“JD.”

“What?”

Tracey looks up, her eyes wide in anticipation and her mouth turning up into a breathless smile and nods to the board.

“JD. That’s the ghost’s name.” Veronica dares to look down, and sure enough, the little glass eye sits over the letter D.

She can’t breathe. She was an uncomfortable cold before, but now she feels like someone just dunked her into an icy river and the water is filling her lungs and throat, freezing them from the inside. She can’t feel her arm cramping or how her heels hurt from kneeling on the floor. She can’t feel anything. She feels numb everywhere. She can’t do anything but look at that letter.

“JD,” Christy repeats in a hushed whisper. “Maybe it’s initials. Anyone here know a dead J.D.?”

“JD,” Bianca says and for a moment Veronica wants to punch everyone who says that name. “Spirit, is that your name?”

When the planchette moves again, it doesn’t feel empty anymore. There’s a familiar presence beneath her fingertip. It’s cold and tight but she would know that feeling anywhere. She would know that hand as well as her own. Even after all this time, he feels the same; dark and compelling, drawing her to him, half scared, half in love, confused out of her mind. She feels it, just it, none of them, pulling the planchette up the board to circle the word ‘yes’. As though there’s an eighth hand on it, another fingertip opposite hers.

She won’t believe it. It has to be a coincidence. She’ll believe in ghosts gladly, but not this one.

“Do you have a message for us, JD?” The planchette lingers there for a full minute, and for half a second she almost feels herself coming back to life. Maybe he’s gone, maybe he was never there.

Then it moves again. Slowly across the board. It even mirrors the way he walked, the slow, careful stroll he took through Westerberg’s halls. She didn’t know it then, not when her hand was wrapped around his and her cheek was resting on his shoulder, but he was almost definitely scoping the place out, searching the student body for another target.

As the planchette moves over the letters, the rest of the party sound them out, their voices forming into one chant.

“O-U-R”

_No._

“L-O-V-E”

_Please God no._

“I-S”

_Not him. Anyone but him. Kurt, Ram, Heather Chandler, anyone but fucking him!_

“G-O-D.”

Her nerves are sparking like livewire, burning beneath her cold, pale skin. She’s not sure if she’s even breathing or not. Those four words seem to spell out in the air in front of her. Four words that used to make her heart soar. She felt so special back then. Like she and JD were the only two who mattered, gods above the common people of her high school. She was living in a golden bubble with him, believing that their love was something healing and beautiful, something only she and JD were allowed to witness. No one understood because they _couldn’t_ understand. They the reason the dinosaurs had to disappear, the crown jewel of the Lord’s great plan. That was everything JD put in her head and she believed it right up until he pulled that trigger.

“Shut it down.” Her voice is so tiny that it can’t be heard even in the still silence of the room. She coughs and clears her throat, but it’s hard to do when it’s almost frozen over. She feels as though something is wrapping around her neck, slithering and icy and intense, and it’s closing more and more with each second. “Christy, shut it down.”

“What? No, not now,” she says. “Spirit, are you here to speak to someone in this circle.”

He pulls the planchette along and she helplessly follows, right up until covers the word ‘yes’.

“Who?” Christy asks. “Who are you here to speak to?”

“Shut it down. Turn it off. Hang it up. I don’t care, just do it!” she says sharply. Her voice started hushed and quiet, but by the end she was barking orders at them. At this point, she’s probably scarier than this board. Her hands are shaking so badly it’s making the little planchette move. “Christy, do it!”

Eight letters. V-E-R-O-N-I-C-A. That’s all it will take. Then she’s powerless against him. Would he really spill everything to her newfound friends? Some small part of her still believes he cares for her. She holds on to what he said to her on the football field as he took the bomb from her, already half dead himself. She tells herself more often than she likes to admit that he wouldn’t have taken that bomb off her if he didn’t care for her. Maybe he cares for her too much to expose her as a murderer. Or maybe in all that time in wherever he’s been, he’s started to resent her.

“Chris,” Madeline says. She whispers something to the other girl that Veronica can’t hear and she nods.

“Okay.” Christy takes a deep breath. She looks over at Veronica, but she can’t make out her expression in the low light. “Spirit, we’re done. Go back from when you came.”

The planchette moves with a sudden jerk, almost pulling Veronica’s arm out of the socket as it propels over to the number nine. It’s not cold anymore. It’s hot beneath her fingertip, like tarmac on a summer’s day. Together pull against it, Veronica going with her friends until she realises what they’re doing; guiding it to the word “goodbye” written on the bottom left of the board.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye though. They’re caught in a tug of war with JD, the muscles in her arm straining against his pull. She feels his grip covering the planchette and laying over her hand. She wonders if anyone else can feel it or if he’s just here for her.

“Come on,” she whispers through gritted teeth as she fights against him. “Come on, let me have this.” The planchette seems rooted to the board, bonded to the wood. It’s seven girls against one supernatural, undead killer and to no one’s surprise, he’s winning.

Veronica takes a moment to look around the rest of them. All of them are beyond freaked out, heaving chests and scrunched up faces everywhere she looks, their eyes darting to each other in panicked confusion. Nausea washes over her, bile creeping up her throat as her heart hammers against her ribs, about to burst right out of her chest, but ‘s the stab of guilt in her gut she feels the hardest. This is her fault. Again. He’s here for her. She let JD loose again and now people are freaked out and scared because of him and possibly in danger and that’s on her.

Stupid, stupid girl thinking she could start over.

She knows now that she’s better off alone.

“JD,” she says, fighting past the hot tears that blur her vision. “JD… please.”

She nearly falls over as the grip on the planchette releases. She manages to steady herself just in time to see the planchette sitting over the word goodbye. It’s cool again under her finger; once again just a piece of wood, a million others out there just like it. There’s nothing and no one in there. He’s gone, back to wherever he came from.

Somehow she isn’t as relieved as she should be.

She pushes herself back and leans against the couch, letting her head fall back to look at the ceiling. The last of the tears trickle slowly down her face. Her body sinks into the floor, for the moment too heavy to move. She allows herself to breathe, the tight noose around her throat gone. In and out, just like she learned. In for eight, out for eight.

“Veronica?”

Crap, she thinks.

She pushes herself up and forces herself to look at the confused faces before her. Madeline gets u and turns the light on, causing Veronica to jump and blink a few times. In the light, the Ouija board looks even less dangerous than it did before; it looks like a prop from a bad movie. And yet she pulls her legs against her chest and cowers away from it.

“Are you okay?” Christy asks, approaching her gently. Underneath the melting pot of emotions, fear and regret and heartbreak and things she’s not ready to define, she’s embarrassed. So much for her attempt to branch out and maybe actually make friends. They look kind, but she knows what’s lurking in the corner of their minds. They’re too mature to write “loser” in marker on her locker, but she may as well have it branded on her face.

“Fine.” She pulls herself to her feet only for her legs to shake and for her to nearly hit the ground again. Christy catches her under the arms and sits her on the couch. She buries her face in her hands and lets out a groan.

“Veronica,” she begins. “I’m so sorry. I thought- I don’t know, I thought we’d get like my grandpa or something. If anything. I didn’t realise that-”

“No,” she cuts her off with a shake of her head. “No. I’m sorry. I just got way too freaked out.”

“It’s okay,” Christy says. “That was some scary shit.”

“Yeah.” She gets up again, her legs still shaking, barely holding her, but she thinks (hopes) that her own will power will be enough to get her back to her dorm. “I should go.” Christy tries to grab her arm, maybe to make her stay, maybe to offer her a ride, but she pulls away from her and runs to the door, not daring to look at anyone else.

There’s a mirror next to the door, half covered with an outrageously big fake cobweb. When she pushes it aside, the girl in her reflection is one she’s seen more than a million times. Panting and breathless, haunted brown eyes and cheeks streaked with black tears. The only difference is that while her cheeks were deathly pale back in those days, they’re scarlet now. But aside from that, this girl may as well be in her bedroom in Ohio, locking the world away and clutching her diary close to her chest, refusing to eat and barely ever sleeping.

She got better. A lot of that was down to Martha, her best friend pushing her bedroom door open with a newfound force and sitting with her until she managed to eat a bowl of cereal. Martha won’t accept it, but she saved her life that day. Veronica’s sure that if she hadn’t come into her room, she would have faded away until there was nothing left of her but a withered husk in a blue blazer. Martha also won’t accept that Veronica didn’t deserve it. She hugged her tighter than anyone else ever had and made her promise to try to get better.

So she did. For her. She owed her that much, she had thought, looking at how her best friend still winced in pain when she tried to get up.

She let her parents send her to counselling. She was careful with her words in there, unknowingly crafting the image of the innocent girl overwhelmed by the wave of suicides, most of all her loving boyfriend Jason. She kept it up, hiding the secret she’s been dragging around with her ever since. She discovered something funny about lies in that time; no matter how hard you try, there’s always some truth in there. She went to sleepovers with Martha and Heather Mac and talked about her feelings with her parents. Chandler, Kurt and Ram came around less and less and Chandler started to be nicer. She moved up from no meals a day to one, then to two and then battled her way up to three. By the time she was ready to go to college she thought maybe she had pieced enough of herself back together again so she wouldn’t crumble.

In her defence, she hadn’t counted on the ghost of her psychotic ex coming back to haunt her.

“Veronica?” A small voice asks. She turns just enough to see Madeline behind her, pulling at her skirt. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says, the words just as hollow and empty as every other time she’s said them. “I’m sorry I got so freaked out-”

“It’s okay,” she assures her. “I mean, that was scary. It was an actual ghost. I was scared too!” She hums in acknowledgement and starts leaning against the wall. “Um… JD… was he… I mean did you…” Her voice trails off and she bites her lip in guilt. Veronica waits, filtering through her mind for the safest way to explain this.

“I had a boyfriend called JD,” she explains and Madeline gasps. “In high school. And he died. And I guess I just freaked out.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Veronica’s grown to hate those words, even when they’re said with good intentions. “And do you think that was him?”

“I don’t know,” she confesses with a shrug. “Maybe. He did have a flair for the dramatic after all.”

“Maybe he wanted to say goodbye,” she offers. “Maybe he misses you.”

“Maybe.” She pushes herself away from the wall. A headache is slowly but surely building behind her eyes. “I just have to go home, that’s all. Sleep it off, I guess.”

“I can give you a ride-”

“No, it’s fine. Really, enjoy the party.” Her voice catches and she decides to play the grieving girlfriend once more. It’s wrong and sly, but hopefully will get her home faster. “I just need to sleep it off. I’ll be fine tomorrow, I promise.”

“Okay.” Madeline doesn’t sound at all convinced but doesn’t stop Veronica from opening the door. “Veronica? Sorry, but… your boyfriend, how did he die?”

She takes a deep breath, her hand wrapping around the doorframe. Madeline’s many things, but tactful isn’t one of them. She closes her eyes as the image of him exploding flashes up in her mind. She swears every time she sees it it’s worse.

“He killed himself,” she answers. That’s the one thing she can say that’s the god’s honest truth.

*****

It’s half past midnight when she gets home, her body soaked and her clothes clinging to her thanks to the October rain. Her numb fingers manage to make her key turn in the lock and she stumbles into her room, the door closing loudly behind her. She sits in the dark for a moment, leaning against the door and giving her shaking legs a rest. She closes her eyes and sits in the quiet of her dorm room, allowing her mind to turn to white noise.

“Are you going to turn that light on or are we going to sit in the dark all night?”

Great. That’s just what she needs.

She whacks the light switch to on. Heather Chandler leans against the wall, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at her attire.

“You look like hell,” she comments. Veronica doesn’t answer her, lumbering over to her bed and pulling her tights off. “Rough night?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” she responds flatly. Heather gasps, her crimson lips, tinged with blue, falling into a perfect O.

“So you’re talking to me now?” she teases. “That was a long eight months talking to myself, Veronica.”

Veronica pulls her knees against her chest and hugs them tightly. The adrenaline has all but completely worn off and now she’s left with the revelation sitting in front of her and staring her in the face.

Ghosts are real. She takes another look up at Heather, who is playing with the ends of her hair and humming some song. Still wearing what she died in, still looking like the demon queen of high school. She’s probably running the other side with an iron fist.

“Are you real?” she asks her.

“What?” Heather drops her hair and frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well I just found out ghosts are real,” she says, her hand clutching the covers. “I got a visit from… an ex.”

“Oh him. Never liked him.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” she says, gesturing to her blue lips. “So if ghosts are real… then are you?”

“Who knows?” she answers. Veronica doesn’t know whether to roll her eyes, throw the pillow at her or try to find an exorcist. “I mean, I could be real. Or I could be all in your head.” She scoots across the bed until she’s inches away from her and presses her fingers to her head. She doesn’t heel anything, no pressure, no warmth or cold. “Either way, I’m bored. Talk to me.”

“You wouldn’t be bored if you weren’t real,” she reasons. “I can’t figure out which is worse.” She gets up and closes the curtains tightly, shutting herself in with Heather. Real or not real, she’s pretty much harmless now. She can’t say anything that Veronica hasn’t already thought herself and after eight months… she hadn’t grown to like her any more than she did when she was alive, but she’s used to her. It’s actually hard to imagine her life without her.

“So how was it?” she asks. “Knowing that tall, dark and sexy is waiting for you on the other side?”

“Terrifying.” She pulls off her top and puts on the sweater she’s started using for bed. “That’s how it was.”

“Is that all?” Veronica stops midway through pulling off her skirt.

“What do you mean?” Heather shrugs casually, laying down on the bed and propping herself up on her elbow, looking like the glamour model she could well have grown up to be.

“Just… I thought you’d have liked hearing from him again,” she suggests, her mouth turning up into a wicked grin. There’s a knowing glint in her eye as well and Veronica turns to look at the wall. Her skin begins to crawl and her stomach plummets. “You know. Your lost love. Your former flame. The one that got away.”

“Shut up,” she scoffs. “You make it sound like we just broke up. We didn’t.”

“Well, you did. And as a result-”

“Yeah I remember. I was there.” She kicks her skirt off and pulls her pyjama pants on. Her clothes lay in a crumpled heap on the floor but they can wait until tomorrow. She hits the light and crawls into her bed, pulling the covers around her.

“Well that’s rude.”

“Go away, Heather.”

“Don’t tell me to go away. You don’t get that luxury, not now.” Veronica buries her head into her pillow, her hands over her ears. “Don’t act like that. You know I’m right. Despite what he was, despite how he turned out, you miss having that asshole around.”

Then Heather shuts up or fades away, and it’s silent.

_She takes his hand, letting him lead her away from the school. The pep rally goes on behind them, but it sounds faint and garbled, like someone is holding her head underwater. She follows him up the hill, their shadows long on the browning grass._

_He stops and turns to her, pushing her hair away from her face. Pure adoration is all over his face, his smile warm and enchanting as he looks at her._

_“I love you,” he tells her, cupping her cheek with his hand. “I love you so much, darling.”_

_She wants to say it back to him, but his lips are on hers before she can say anything else. She smiles against his lips, his strong arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her so that her chest is pressed against his. He pulls away from her, running his fingers through her dark, unruly hair, and chuckles._

_“I got you this.” He lifts his hand and shows her a red scrunchie. “A keepsake.” She lets him turn her around and gather her hair up in a low ponytail, securing with the stolen scrunchie. She’s facing the school, too far away to see or hear anything in it. It’s a doll’s house, all the way at the bottom of the hill._

_He kisses the back of her head his fingers tracing the edge of the scrunchie delicately._

_“There. You look beautiful, my love.”_

_“Thank you,” she says as he wraps his arm around her waist. The day feels perfect; the sun bathing them in a golden glow, the light breeze blowing their hair off their faces, dead leaves scattering around them. She pulls his arms tighter around her body._

_“Now, let me show you just how much I love you.”_

_The ground beneath her shakes as the school below the is torn apart from wall to wall; bricks flying all around it, the roof caving in and falling. Glass blows out from the windows and litters the parking lot around them, glittering in the firelight. The once proud structure crumbles into itself, the heat melting the iron that held it up. Everything that held the school in place is scattered on the ground and stained red. Thick black smoke billows out from the wreckage, creeping towards the sky and covering the sun, covering the whole scene with its shadow._

_And she stands against him, her muscles frozen and immovable, his arms locked around her in an embrace. His lips creep along her neck and jaw, pausing at her ear. Although she can’t see him, she can picture the grin on his face, the glint in his eye. His breath is cold on her ear, tickling her cheek, making the hairs stand up on the back of her neck._

_“That’s how much I love you.”_

Her hand reaches for the lamp before she’s even fully awake; a reflex built over months of nightmares. After weeks of bolting up in darkness and not knowing if she was awake or asleep, half of her still trapped in whatever dream she was having, she decided the first thing she was buying for her college dorm was a lamp and she trained herself to turn it on the moment she wakes up. She looks around her half lit room, immediately counting five things to keep herself grounded. She learned that in the first month or so of therapy, back when panic attacks would come on thick and fast without warning. She counts; her desk, one. Her wardrobe, two. Her mug of pencils, three. Her backpack, four. Her textbook, five.

She lets out a long, steady breath. In for eight, out for eight. She’s awake. She’s safe.

Well, as safe as she can hope to be.

She pushes her covers off and stands up, stretching her tight muscles. The fog clears and her mind catches up with her pounding heart, the sudden change making her dizzy and breathless. She closes her eyes as tears begin to sting her eyes; a lump rising in her throat. The her shoulders start shaking and she betrays everything she’s been trying to stand for. At least over the months she’s gotten good at crying quietly.

She tilts the lamp so that it lights up more of the room. Her books are strewn across her desk, one half open and highlighted. Law for Social Work.

She shakes her head at herself. She says she’s trying to move on, promising herself every morning that she’ll think about him less, but she’s here. She’s in this college studying social work because of him. Because there’s not a day she doesn’t wonder ‘what if’. What if his mom hadn’t died, what if he hadn’t watched her, what if his dad was good, what if someone had intervened? Then maybe he would have been the person she wanted. The boy with the crooked smile and sarcastic humour that she fell in love with. Maybe he’d still be with her now. Those what ifs keep her up and night and plague her in the early hours of the morning when she can’t sleep.

It’s a child’s fantasy but she holds onto it because the alternative is too dark to let herself think about. The alternative is that he never loved her at all, that she put all of her hopes and dreams on someone who never existed. And that somehow manages to hurt her more than anything he did when he was alive.

There’s something else too. She’s never stopped thinking about how many Big Bud Deans are out there now. How many kids are getting closer every day to ‘far too damaged’. She might not have believed in ghosts before tonight but she believed in fate and justice and judgement. There’s a black spot in her soul now and she can blame JD as much as she wants but that doesn’t take away the feeling of the gun in her hand. And maybe when she’s finished, maybe, just maybe, every kid she saves will put erase that black spot just a little. It’s a very big maybe but she clings to it anyway.

She pushes open the curtain, looking out at the courtyard below, or at least trying to. It’s almost completely black outside, aside from the stars and the full moon and that one street light that’s on at this hour. Far out in the distance she sees two impossibly small glowing dots; the headlights of car or truck or whatever. Whoever it is must be insane to be driving at this hour. She says a little mental prayer for them.

A flash in the glass takes her out of her thoughts. A change in the reflection. 24 hours ago she wouldn’t have believed such a thing is possible but now all she can do is stand there with her mouth dry and her hand shaking. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

It’s him. She had thought that after a year she might forget him, but he looks just like he did when he was alive. His reflection stands just behind her, his face dark and unreadable, but his curls and heavy trench coat are unmistakable. As are the curve of his shoulders and deceptively soft looking hands. She knows that body as well as her own after all the nights she spent with him, getting intimately familiar with every inch of him.

She wants to turn around, but her body is completely still, her feet nailed to the ground. She wonders if she’s still dreaming or if this is some kind of sleep paralysis. Her body feels like it is, locked and frozen, but she knows she couldn’t make this up. Despite not touching him, he feels real.

In the reflection, his hand reaches out to her. Goosebumps prick up all over her body. Every inch of her tells her to scream and run but she stands there, silent and still and scared. She watches his hand brush against her hair, but she doesn’t feel it. What she does feel is a cold breeze blowing past her shoulders and neck like a December wind.

A tear rolls down her cheek.

She watches in the window as he reaches out to her cheek. She wants more than anything to slap his hand away, to scream and shout at him until he’s gone and this time she actually tries to, but her body remains locked. She tells herself over and over that she’s dreaming despite everything telling her otherwise. She isn’t even sure if she wants to be dreaming. Just like everything with him, she feels like she’s existing in a shade of grey, caught between the logical answer she should have and the one that she doesn’t want to admit to having.

Then she sees it. A pale grey hand appearing in her vision, not in the reflection in the window but on her side of the window. Cold spreads across her cheek, following the trail of his finger. He doesn’t wipe the tear away.

She whips around, her body suddenly freed. Her back crashes into the chair and she grabs hold of her desk for balance. She feels bile rising in her throat at the site before her. It’s briefer than brief but it’s there.

It’s him.

He’s only with her for a moment, but she can see all of him. Tall and dark haired, broad shoulders and a strong jawline. Dimples and a heart-melting smile. Eyes she used to lose herself in. Maybe if she looked into them again she’d find that missing part of herself or she might lose more.

He looks at her with his mouth open in surprise and she considers smacking him because of the two of them, she’s the only one allowed to be surprised. Who does he think he is, acting shocked when he’s the one haunting her? She should go over and let him know that if he thinks he’s had a shock he should try having the ghost of his ex appearing and trying to talk after he’s had to endure what she’s had to.

She can’t though, because almost as soon as she lays eyes on him, he disappears. It’s like turning a TV off; he flickers and distorts before abruptly vanishing from in front of her, leaving her in her dim room.

She reaches her trembling hand out to where he was, testing if he’s still there. There’s nothing; no cold and nothing grabs onto her hand. It’s like he was never there.

Her legs are weak with relief. She leans on the desk and then the wall as she makes her way back to her bed. She stares up at her ceiling, her body tense as she expects him to appear again, maybe grab her arm or jump on top of her. He doesn’t.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispers, rubbing her hands over her face. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Realisation slowly dawns on her, probably an obvious one; she can’t let him stay. Her own feelings aside, there’s no telling what a ghost JD could do if he was loose (if he is loose, she’s not clear on the ghost rules).

She blinks heavily, her body’s fatigue winning out over the kaleidoscope of feelings in her head. They all blur and bleed together anyway, love and grief mixing together into an unholy cocktail that she suspects will leave her with a hangover to end all hangovers. She rolls over onto her side and smacks off the lamp. She leaves the covers off, her limbs too heavy to move.

“Don’t even think about coming into this bed,” she says bluntly just in case he’s listening. She fights sleep for a while and waits in the dark for an answer. If he does give one, she’s asleep before she can hear it.

But when she wakes up, she’s under the covers.

She heads to the campus library as soon as she’s dressed. At 7am, the campus is almost completely quiet aside from tired looking professors and dead eyed masters students milling around in the windows far above her. The orange and red leaves stand against the grey sky, falling from the thin branches and piling up on the ground, the wind blowing them around her ankles now. It’s getting colder now; nights are going to get longer. The morning is darker already, the sun locked away behind thick clouds. She can feel the change in the air and her instincts tell her it’s not all to do with the changing seasons and upcoming winter.

She gulps and pulls her scarf tighter around her.

The library is at least warmer than outside. Veronica skirts around empty desks and avoids the looks of janitors and librarians, wondering what this freshman with bags under her eyes is doing in the library this early. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them anyway.

She makes her way to the back, to the section marked “folklore and legends”. A blush creeps up her neck and cheeks and she’s thankful no one is around to notice her. After last night, her new friends are probably freaked out enough. If they were to find out she’s being haunted by her ex they’d probably never speak to her again.

She’s not sure what exactly she’s frantically searching through the shelves for. She guesses she’s hoping something will jump out at her. A big book called “Getting Rid Of Ghosts For Dummies” or something wouldn’t go amiss. She looks past volumes about fairies and witches and hexes, then looks back to see if she missed anything. The folklore section has to be half the size of the law and social work sections which she frequents most often, but she feels like she’s trapped in an ever growing maze with no idea where to start and no time to risk taking a wrong turn.

“Are you looking for something?”

It’s a kind question said by someone with a gentle, low voice, but Veronica almost screams, jumping backwards so hard that her back hits against the wall with an audible thump. She stands for a moment, panting breathlessly and her heart pounding rapidly, making her feel like she’s going to throw up. Or would throw up if she had anything inside her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, no it’s fine.” Veronica shakes herself out and pulls herself back down to Earth. She looks over at the person who spoke to her; finding an older woman with black hair streaked with grey and a long deep blue skirt. It reminds her of Miss Fleming, but where Fleming was tightly wound up and left Veronica feeling uncomfortable in her presence (especially after what happened with Heather Mac), this woman has an easy smile and gentle eyes that manage to almost put her at ease. She seems to be everything Fleming wanted to be. Veronica pushes her hair away from her face. “Sorry. I’m just feeling a little jumpy today.”

“Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’re looking for something in particular,” she asks. “I lecture on folklore here. Professor Fiona Brady.”

“Veronica Sawyer,” she says, shaking her outstretched hand. “I was just looking for… um…” Well, what did she have to lose? “I was looking for something about ghosts.”

“About ghosts?” she echoes, huffing out a laugh. “Is this because of Halloween?”

“Something like that,” she mumbles.

“Well.” Fiona turns to the shelves, tapping her chin as her eyes scan the volumes. “This one’s pretty good.” She stretches up and lifts a thin red book off the top shelf before handing it her. The title _ghosts, spirits and other undead entities _is etched onto the cover in silver. “It has everything you might need to get started on ghosts. Ways to keep them at bay, get rid of them…”

“That’s perfect,” she sighs. “Thank you so much.”

Fiona can barely get out a “you’re welcome” or anything else before runs off in the direction of the circulation desk. In the back of her mind she feels bad for leaving here there, but she can see the ticking clock that’s working against her.

She doesn’t go back to her dorm room. For all she knows, JD is still there and he probably won’t like her having a ghost killing book. Ghost banishing, she corrects herself. The word killing holds too much weight and makes her stomach twist and turn painfully. So she sits by the lake instead, cross legged on the grass, scanning the contents and flipping through the pages so quickly that the words blur together in a sea of black ink on yellow pages until she finds what she’s looking for.

The chapter about ghosts is tucked near the back and worryingly small for the subject matter. After her frantic frenzy of turning pages, she turns them slowly and carefully now, reading every paragraph twice in case she misses something.

The words_ Getting Rid Of Spirits_ make her breath catch in her throat. Her hands shake as she reads further down, scepticism clouding her thoughts. This book is based on whispers and superstition and while that is all she can go on, it’s not enough. All she can do is hope and pray that whatever she finds in here works.

_The most common way to get rid of a ghost is to locate whatever object holding it to this realm. This could be something dear to them or something they were holding when they died. It will be something in the area they are haunting as they are tied to wherever the object is. Cover the object in salt and then burn it. This will sever the connection holding the ghost to this realm and it will stop haunting you._

_Out of all the methods discussed in this chapter, this is the most widely known and the one believed to have the most success._

Veronica closes the book and gets up, her legs stiff from disuse. She turns it over in her shaky hands, drumming her nails on the cover. It would be the easiest way to go except for one simple thing; she has no idea what could be holding JD here. He died holding the bomb and anything else he might have had on him at that point was torn to shreds, scooped up and put in the nearest garbage dump. He didn’t have much and what he did have was either given away or thrown out by his dad. They never made it to the Valentine’s gift stage.

Still, it’s her best shot. She puts her bag on her shoulder and heads off in the direction of the store and then her dorm, the hair on the back of her neck prickling up as she gets closer.

Thankfully, the store clerk doesn’t bat an eye at her purchase of a book of matches and a tub of salt. It rolls around in the bottom of her bag, this unsuspecting and simple object possibly being the most important thing in her life.

She throws the bag on the bed when she gets into her dorm. There’s an instant change in the room; cold air swirling around and the invasive feeling of four pairs of eyes on her back. She raises her chin, hoping that her eyes don’t show how scared she feels.

“Sit your asses down,” she hisses past the lump in her throat. “I’m busy.”

She first looks through her closet, wondering if she borrowed a shirt off him and never gave it back. There was one day he let her wear his shirt, sitting up in his room trading lazy kisses and dumb jokes and loud laughs, legs intertwined under a scratchy blanket. Two days after Heather Chandler’s funeral.

Before she met him, she never thought a memory could make you want to smile and throw up at the same time.

Her closet comes up empty, as does her suitcase from home. The room gets colder as she gets up to search her desk. She can’t stop the tiny sob that escapes her as she pulls out her first desk drawer and places it on the bed, shifting through pens and half-pages of notes and crumpled flyers for parties she never went to. Her head spins and she leans on her elbow for some semblance of balance. With every new useless trinket she takes out of her drawer, she feels more and more helpless.

Then she sees it. Tucked in the corner of her drawer under a hole puncher. A little bent in the corner but otherwise in perfect shape. It has to be this.

She lifts out a photo of her and JD, with September 30th, 1989 written on the back in his writing; quick strokes, the ‘b’ and ‘e’ joined together, the stroke through the ‘t’ is long and the ‘p’ is so thin it could pass for an ‘l’. He always wrote like he was in a rush, like the world was moving on without him. She lies on the couch her head in his lap while he runs his fingers through her hair, his mouth open, in the middle of telling her something, something that she’s clearly enjoying going by the broad grin on her face.

She remembers almost everything about this photo. She remembers JD setting it on the timer and placing it on the mantlepiece. She remembers him taking her hand and pulling her over to the couch. She remembers him pulling her onto his lap and her laughing, settling for putting her head there instead. She remembers how careful his fingers were in her hair, how delicately he untangled every knot and how lightly his fingertips stroked her head. She remembers almost falling asleep in his lap, relaxed as she was. She remembers everything except what he was saying to her. She looks at herself in the picture, relaxed in his lap, her smile bigger than it’s been since then. She looks happy. She looks in love. And she was.

At least she thinks she was. She still isn’t entirely sure; all she knows is that no one had made her feel the way he did and no one has since-and god damn it she’s been trying. No one had given her the same kind of rush that she got from the feeling of him holding her or the same kind of ecstasy she got when he kissed her shoulder. Nothing or no one ever made her feel as calm as she was when she was wrapped up in his arms or as understood as she felt when he held her hand. She knows that despite her straight As in English, she didn’t have the words to describe how she felt when he looked at her with those big brown eyes and that dimpled smile and told her he loved her. A sort of rush came over her, reducing her to a blushing mess. He was beautiful but never looked angelic, even before she realised what he was, she wouldn’t have used that word. Alluring was the better word; there was a magnetic force around him that she felt from the moment he first spoke to her. She wonders now if he was made like that just to draw girls like her in; girls with not enough walls and too much hope. The perfect bait for the dark and mysterious bad boy with an imaginary heart of gold. He never made an attempt to hide his messy home life and that had only made Veronica want him more. Her adolescent fantasy of rescuing the broken boy, putting his shattered pieces back together. She didn’t realise she cut her hand every time she touched him.

And yet after everything, she loved him and he takes up too much space in her mind. He’s behind a door that never closes.

She hastily wipes her tears away and puts the picture in her pocket. Maybe she can put this all to rest before classes start.

When she pulls on the door handle, she finds it won’t budge. She kneels down and checks the keyhole; it’s unlocked. She pulls at the handle again but the door remains stubbornly still and she comes to a chilling realisation; it’s JD.

“JD,” she whispers. She puts her hand on the door and leans heavily on it. “Please. I’m trying to help you just let me out.” She shakes the door handle again, but the door won’t budge. “JD let me out. Please.” She smacks the wood, her hand coming away red. The room shrinks around her, the walls pressing in against her. She closes her eyes and headbutts the door. It’s not real; it can’t be real. But up until yesterday ghosts weren’t real and up until just under a year ago she didn’t think her being a Heather was real. She turns the doorknob frantically, the sound echoing in her mind. “JD please let me out.” Another scene flashes through her mind of her on another side of another door, someone else banging on the wood and begging to be let in this time. Her knees buckle and her body hits the door, tears wetting the wood. “JD open this door. Please!” Her hands pound harder and quicker against the wall, matching the frantic rhythm of her heart. Her fingers curl and turn to claws which scrap at the wood, all the while the temperature in the room drops. She can feel someone behind her, the tiniest whisper of a trench coat flowing in her peripheral vision and she bites back a scream. Her hands are coming away with scarlet scratches and droplets now, underneath her nails caked in dark brown. Still the door remains tightly shut.

Veronica curls her hands into fists, wincing as her nails dig into the cuts on her palm. She lets out a breath, and for a second she’s unusually calm. Floating in a sea of nothingness, fear and anger fleeing her. She doesn’t even think, just looks at the door passively, the only thing she’s aware of being her own breathing.

Then it’s over as quick as it came, and she hears a visceral scream.

“JASON DEAN YOU OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW YOU BASTARD OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL KILL YOUR UNDEAD ASS!”

She yanks on the door a final time and stumbles into the open air, falling over her feet and hitting the hallway floor with an audible smack. Her head rings as she turns to face her dorm, finding the door open.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?” a voice asks to her side.

_Take a guess_ she thinks. She rolls over onto her side and stands up, swaying slightly on her unsure legs. She looks up to the pale face of her dorm neighbour, her mouth open in shock.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just, you know… got a lot going on.” The girl nods, her mouth opening and closing, small squeaks coming out but no real words. She’s still there after Veronica braves her dorm again and gets her bag from her bed.

“Sorry,” she says just as she’s locking her door and about to walk away. “But… was there someone in there with you? I heard you yelling at someone.” She looks fearfully at Veronica’s locked door as if JD might jump through it. Who knows, maybe he can. She lowers her voice and leans close to her. “Do we need to call the police?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m fine. It’s fine. Just dealing with some bad memories.” It scares her now; how easy lying comes to her. She shakes her head. “Sorry, I got a little caught up.”

“I’ve been there,” she says. “Bad ex?”

“The worst.”

“We all think that,” she offers with a smile. “At least he’s gone now.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Sorry I have to go.” She runs through the hall and down the stairs before her neighbour can ask what’s wrong.

Behind the looming grey structure of the dorm building, there’s the garbage dump. Behind a wired fence is three large skips; one for food waste, one for recyclables and one for non-recyclables. Everyone will end up making the trip there in the next few months, when even the laziest of students will come down with their bulging bags of garbage to throw into the skip. It’s used for other, less conventional activities too, Veronica has realised, after she ran into a couple slipping out here for a midnight meet-up a few weeks ago. Apparently it’s a common enough spot for the campus couples. But at this early hour it’s deserted, making it just what Veronica needs.

She approaches it warily, still stumbling and tripping, her legs weak and her mind frayed and burnt out. Her eyes are rimmed red and itch with tiredness and tears. She fingers the picture in her pocket, trying to believe that this will be over soon enough.

She slips inside the fenced off area and hurries to the corner, where a small trashcan sits alongside the bigger skips. Wet leaves and cigarette packets and cereal boxes line the bottom of it. There are already black marks that she guesses are burn marks along its sides. Probably down to some drunken college kids partying a little too hard.

She’d know what that was like.

She thinks about that party a lot of the time. Her mind asks so many questions, another set of ‘what if’s. What if she never went to JD’s that night or never left the party or never even went to it? Would she have avoided everything or would he have found some way to rope her in? What if she never betrayed Martha or became a Heather in the first place? What if this all started because she wanted to climb the ladder.

She, and her therapist, have told her there’s little point thinking about possibilities like that. The future is what’s important and that’s where her redemption lies. But that doesn’t mean she can’t mourn for the past she could have had.

She takes one last look at the photo before tossing it into the trash can. The she opens the salt and covers it completely. Now all that’s left to do is light it and he’s gone. Not just his spirit, but the last piece of him she has.

The matches don’t light. She does wonder if JD has something to do with this or if it’s just her shaking hand. She watches with growing disappointment as more and more come up empty, a small spark and then nothing but a small, steady stream of smoke.

She takes one in her hand. The seventh one she’s tried. She blows on the matchbook for good luck and takes a deep breath, pulling it across the side.

“Nice one.”

She nearly drops the lit match. Slowly, she lifts her eyes up from the ground, forcing herself to look at him. His voice sounds nothing like it does in her memories; she remembers him as either soft spoken and gentle as he reads the words of Baudelaire to her, or fast paced and manic, his sanity dripping down the drain while he professes his undying love to her. Now he just sounds tired and rough, deadpan sarcasm and a hint of joy.

The sight of him makes her flinch and not for the obvious reason. He looks almost the same as he did in the photo except for one, crucial detail; the red lines that run across his face, neck and hands. She bets that if he took his clothes off, they would be running across the rest of him too. They’re thin and cover every inch of him, bright crimson against his ashen skin. They cut through his eyebrows and lips like scars and overlap and cross each other. There must be hundreds of them on his face alone; there seems to be more red lines than there is actual skin. They stretch as he opens his mouth and even more so when he smiles at her but don’t bleed.

“Hi, Ronnie.”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

“Okay.” He nods solemnly. “I deserved that.”

“Yeah,” she spits back. “You did.” He puts his hands in his back pocket, looking at the ground. If she didn’t know him, she’d say he looked guilty. Her fists tremble and her breath comes in heavy gasps. She covers her mouth just as the first sob is wrung out of her. “Oh come on, this isn’t fair.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No! You don’t!” she yells, her throat raw, her voice coming out cracked. She rubs a hand over her face, drying some of the tears. “You don’t get to talk about unfair, JD. Not after… not after everything about this.”

“You look good,” he offers half-heartedly.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Noted.” He taps his foot noiselessly against the ground, nodding at the trash can. “Do it then.”

“Do what?” He points at her hand, where the lit match still sits. It’s half burned away by now, the flames licking her skin. She blows it out and takes out another one. “Veronica, I-”

“What?” she asks, almost laughing. “Don’t say you’re sorry because you’re not capable of that.” He doesn’t answer; his face is a stone mask. He doesn’t agree nor does he disagree and she has no idea which one she would have preferred.

Then his lips curl into a knowing smirk, the same kind she remembers from when he was about to drop a witty one liner on Kurt and Ram. The one that drew her like a moth to a flame. She wants to hate it and she does, but there’s still a tiny part of her mind that says otherwise.

“What?” she asks.

“You’re stalling.” She looks down at the match, unlit and dull in her hand.

“Well it isn’t every day you banish your ex’s ghost,” she sighs. “I still don’t know if this will work.” She raises her head, her eyes meeting his. She steps back. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you know? If this is can work?”

“No idea,” he confesses, scratching behind his ear. “I mean, I’ve never heard of it not working. I don’t really get a lot of conversations… over there.” A shiver runs down Veronica’s spine at the implication behind his words. She hasn’t thought much about what’s after this life and didn’t think she was religious at all until JD. Now she recoils away from churches and every now and then lies awake at night praying for her immortal soul. She doesn’t go to an actual confession with an actual priest because she knows that if she tells him he’d toss her out. Or have her executed there and then. She did think that there was a nice spot reserved in the fiery pit just for her and was close to making peace with that, but seeing JD here makes her wonder if she doesn’t need to be so scared. “So I haven’t been able to say hi to him for you.”

“Hi to who?”

“God.”

“Oh.” Her final request. Her response to one last declaration of love to her. Her memories might be fuzzy but that day is branded into her mind. Every word and expression, every quirk of his mouth and raise of his eyebrow. She even remembers how the air smelt that day; honeydew and a hint of car gas, before the smell of burning flesh and singed grass rolled over and covered it up. His words are what she remembers most. He’d be glad, she thinks, if she told him that. His way with words was his speciality, up there with building bombs. In another life he’d have made a great writer.

She wraps her arms around herself, gripping tight. She should know better by now but she’ll never get another chance.

“Did you mean what you said that day?” she asks. Her nails dig into her sleeve and leave indents in her skin. “About… everything.”

“Yeah. I think.” There it is. Certainty followed by a question. A white sheet tinged grey. “I’m not… I thought a lot about it. On this side. I meant what I said about you not being beyond repair.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Yeah. No thanks to me.” She has to be imagining the shakiness in his voice, how small and faraway it sounds. If he chose now to get a conscience she’s going to kill him. Again. The silence stretches out between them, heavy and tight around her. She turns the match in her hand. She feels as though there’s iron around her feet, binding her to the ground and she knows he has nothing to do with it.

“Are you happy?”

“What?” She looks up at him, his eyes wide, his expression uncharacteristically sheepish. He shrugs awkwardly, his lips rolled into a thin line.

“I just… I need to know. Are you happy?”

“Are you… is this a joke?” She could probably light the match with the fire in her eyes right now. It burns painfully in her face, her chest. Her heart is molten, dripping scorching droplets. “How… fucking… dare you.”

“Ronnie, I-”

“_What did I tell you about calling me that?”_ she screams at him. “Happy? You’re asking me if I am fucking happy. Let me tell you I have been completely miserable since you left. You dragged me through hell, JD. I don’t care where you ended up because it can’t be anything compared to what you did to me! I’m lucky if I get five hours of sleep a night because I’m being woken up by Heather or Kurt or Ram or maybe I’m having a nightmare about you again! I didn’t sleep for a god damn month after you because I couldn’t, because every time I closed my eyes all I saw was Heather or Kurt or Ram or Martha or Heather Mac or you dying! You know what you put me through? Panic attacks in a public bathroom! Burying my face in my pillow at 2 in the morning so my parents won’t hear me screaming! You’ve got some nice looking scars there, why don’t you compare them to mine because you also did that to me! You threw me through weeks of just… not even existing! I couldn’t eat because I puked it up every time! I can’t get close to anyone else now! I nearly had a date but I freaked out because all I could think about was ‘what if she’s another you’? You’ve made me carry around all this baggage and I can’t tell anyone about it because if I do I get arrested! Some days the guilt just eats me alive and I can’t do anything but sit there and wait for it to be over so I can feel like an actual person again! So no, JD, I am not happy!” Her confessions hit him one after the other, like bullets from a revolver. She shakes her head, wrenches her legs free and marches towards the trash can. She strikes the match and feels the heat on her skin. “You know what fuck it, I’m-”

She steps back as soon as she approaches the trash can. Suddenly her throat becomes too tight for her to breathe and a fresh set of tears builds behind her eyes. Her hand shakes as she drops the half-burnt match on a pile of wet leaves. It softly snuffs out, leaving an almost invisible trail of smoke in its wake.

“Oh my god.” She buries her face in her hands wondering what’s become of her.

“Veronica?”

“Don’t you dare.” She shakes her head at his half outstretched arms. If he came any closer she’d fall right into those arms, undead or not. It might be the place she wants to be but it’s the last place she should be. “Don’t come any closer to me.” She pulls her arms around herself instead, her whole body shaking. She lets out a cold laugh and it sounds like she’s the crazy one. Maybe she is. “You know what the worst part about all of this is?”

“No. But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“The worst part is that after everything. After the sleepless nights and the vomiting and the guilt breaking my back, the worst part of all of this is that I still love you. I’m still in love with you and what kind of idiot does that make me? You put me throw hell, JD, and I’m just here missing you and wishing you were still around you stupid piece of-” She doesn’t know if that last part is directed at him or herself. She dissolves into tears, her pain taking control and washing over her for a few minutes. She’s unable to speak or think or even take a breath, all there is her and her tears. Then, like she’s done so many times in the past year, she pulls herself back together. “That’s the worst part of all this.”

“If it helps,” he offers. “I love you too.”

“It doesn’t,” she replies. “I don’t want your love. At least, I don’t want to want it.” He nods, his hands stuffed into his coat pocket. A breeze blows Veronica’s hair off her face but it does nothing to him. In the last few days, she had felt he was a world away from her. The day after she left him, she took a peek at him across the room in study hall, feeling like they were existing in two separate worlds. Now that’s a reality.

“Ron-Veronica,” he begins. “What you said about Heather and Ram and Kurt… that wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I did all that.”

“I gave her the cup. I pulled the trigger.”

“Because of me. I poured that drain cleaner, I lied to you.” He runs his hand through his hair, something he did so many times when he was alive. “It’s on me. It’s all on me. You’re different, Veronica. I destroy shit and you fix them.” A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “I saw all those books in your room.” She doesn’t reply and forces herself not to smile. He’s smart enough to have worked out why she chose social work. “Did you mean what you said? In the boiler room about you and me?”

_I wish we’d met before they convinced you life is war._

“Of course I did,” she replies. Her voice is thin as paper.

“What if I said I wish that too?”

“Maybe there’s some other universe out there where we did,” she says. She used to not believe in alternate universes and all that crap, but now she’s here talking with her dead ex-boyfriend. A stab of jealousy hits her gut for that other universe, the other her that has the version of JD that’s capable of loving her. Why didn’t she get that JD? She’s asked herself time and time again if JD was some punishment for something wrong she did.

“Maybe,” he says flatly. “Veronica… let me go.”

“What?”

“Do what you came here for. Light me up. Let me go.” His request takes her by surprise; he at least put up a fight before he died. Now he just shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t belong here. You came out here to do something. Do it.”

She takes the matchbook out of her pocket. She only looks away from JD for a split second to light the match. It strikes on the first try and for the third time there’s a flame on her hand.

“Third time’s the charm, I guess.” His voice shakes even as he grins. “Do it, Veronica.”

She takes a step closer and then another one, until the trash can is the only distance between them. She looks at the face of the boy she loves and hates, the lips she kissed, the cheeks the stroked, the hair she ran her fingers through. In a private part of her mind, dark and locked away, she still counts their night together as one of the best of her life, if she separates it from everything that came after. He takes bittersweet to a new level. She looks back on him with the occasional smile and a boatload of tears. She’s accepted that she’ll never be free from him. He’s the reason she keeps fighting now. Their history is scarred and ugly, brutal and painful to think about, but it’s inerasable. The scars on her arm may have faded but the ones in her mind won’t. But all that doesn’t mean she can’t look forward.

She drops the match onto the photo.

He gasps, his hand flying to his stomach; the exact spot where the bullet went into him. He nods and she swears she can see tears in her eyes. He winces and closes his eyes tightly. Then he flickers away for a second and then back in and she knows it’s working.

“No,” she whispers from behind her hands. “No.” Months ago, she had pleaded with him to find a different way, but now there isn’t one. She can’t decide which time hurt more. The first one was a fresh wound but this wasn’t expected.

He flickers out and back in again, looking blurry and unfocussed when he comes back. He tries to talk to her, but his voice is garbled and faint like a broken radio. She strains her ears, trying to find meaning among the rubble of words.

She thinks she hears _I’m sorry_ but it’s probably wishful thinking.

Then he’s gone. He blinks out of this world all at once. She feels it; he’s not just hiding on her, she’s alone now. He’s gone. Again.

Her knees hit the ground and soon her body follows. The fire in the trashcan burns itself out and is reduced to wisps of grey smoke. She lays on her side, watching her fingers curl and uncurl. She wishes she could just stay there, alone and frozen in time with no thoughts to bother her. Isn’t she better off alone anyway?

Her breaths are long and deep. Her heartbeat is slow against the gravel. Maybe JD took her soul away with him and that’s why she feels like this; like someone hollowed her out from the inside. Her skin feels too delicate to move, like her body would shatter if she tried to move. She wants to close her eyes but they won’t allow it; forcing themselves open and leaking out fresh tears. There’s some kind of comfort in being so still. Like the world could keep changing but she’d stay there forever, untouched.

She cries. She cries for the future with JD, the one that she can't have. She cries for him, the boy who took her heart and for better or worse, kept it. She cries for herself, for the part of herself that's across that line with JD, wherever he is, and for what's left of her now. She's trying, damn it. She's spent almost a year trying to pull herself back up and find some way of carrying on, to put the broken pieces of herself back together and find a replacement for the lost ones. She cries for the girl she left behind in 1989, the one with the broad smile and dumb laugh who wanted so many things; love, happiness, adventure. The girl she is now just wants to be whole.

It's not until she hears the gate creaking open that she gets up. She checks her watch and finds it's ten thirty. She's been here for well over an hour and missed two classes so far. Apparently the world doesn't wait for her to get her shit together. Sometimes, especially in those first days, she felt like the world wasn't moving; day and night came and went but the world stood still in the universe. But it was her that stood still. The world's going to keep moving anyway, she tells herself. Doesn't she owe it to herself to move with it?

After her last class, she sits by the lake, trying to highlight passages from her textbook, but her brain feels fuzzy and worn out. She’s probably in need of a nap, or something more after the day she’s had. She wonders what might be awaiting her tonight. Maybe another one of Heather Chandler with draino stained lips or Martha with broken limbs at the bottom of a bridge.

Or maybe nothing. Maybe she’ll do what JD said to; maybe she’ll move on. Maybe she’ll call that girl and actually go through with it this time. Maybe one day she’ll finally sleep soundly. Maybe she’ll put the past behind her. Maybe she’ll stop flinching at the idea of going back home. Maybe she’ll be able read Baudelaire again. Maybe she’ll look at herself in the mirror.

They won’t be gone. But maybe someday, possibly sooner than she thinks, all her ghosts will be quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> and 13k later this beast is done! pls leave comments and kudos to feed my ego.


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